


the light is no mystery

by orphan_account



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Catra Needs Therapy (She-Ra), F/F, Mental Health Issues, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:34:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26013433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Catra turns at the last second. Adora is in her red jacket and Horde uniform, ponytail swinging; a memory and an unattainable future at once, pulsing in the inside of her eyes, a bruise against Catra’s heart. She wants to run after Adora, to curl her fingers around Adora wrists. She wants to breathe ‘I’m sorry’ into Adora’s mouth and feel them skin to skin.She wants--The doors slide shut.Catra and Adora, healing, relearning how to love.
Relationships: Adora/Catra (She-Ra)
Kudos: 41





	the light is no mystery

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys. I'm back. as some people might have noticed, some of my fics are on hiatus. i will be continuing them, i'm just working on other projects.
> 
> now enjoy some angst

It doesn’t feel like waking up. It’s too sudden; a flash of green light and then a suffocating heat, mind free of the sticky weight it’s been carrying since the chip. There’s a body pressed against hers, which Catra knows is Adora’s, and clean, warm air that flows through her lungs. She keeps her eyes closed, Adora’s breathing audible, layed by the soft sounds of a heartbeat underneath. It's not hers, but Adora's--and the only reason Catra stays where she is. She can’t trust herself right now, mind full of unfamiliar scars, but Adora is a constant in a world of change--which is the only reason why she relaxes; turns her head towards Adora’s stomach, opens her eyes, and gasps out a, “hey, Adora”, while Adora’s hand curves around her face. It’s easy, a reflex by now, and while Adora cradles her like she did when they were children, Catra tries to locate Adora’s heartbeat again. It takes her a moment, but then she can finally hear it, almost inaudible but her, really her.

Adora came back.

She must read Catra’s expression, because moments later Adora’s turning and pulling her into an embrace. Her face is tear streaked, but despite it, she clings to Catra tightly, fingers fisted in the fabric of her shirt. Catra can feel Adora’s collarbone when she rests her chin against it, and her claws unsheathe, fist in the fabric of Adora’s jacket after a moment of hesitation. They know each other’s bodies, fit together in a well worn grove, and Catra relaxes into her and finally, finally  _ breathes _ .

They’re going home.

She doesn’t know how much time passes before they finally break apart. Catra is the one to pull away, despite how much she doesn’t want to, a crick in her neck forming from the way she’s seated. Adora watches as Catra pushes at it, tensing when her fingers find the chip.

“We’ll get it out,” she says.

_ You better _ , thinks Catra. She doesn’t say it though. Adora has saved her, and she’s still relearning what it means to be friends again. She’s not going to be rude. Especially not when she already owes her so much. 

“Okay. Entrapta is here. She can remove it.” Catra will just have to wait. 

An uncomfortable silence passes between them, and Adora finally says, “are you tired?”

“I’m fine.”

“Thirsty? Hungry? Do you need anything?”

“I’m  _ fine _ ,” Catra repeats, harsher than intended, and surprise flits across Adora’s face. It’s followed by hurt a moment later, and Catra holds up her hands, hating it, hating that she’s the one that caused this even after she promised to be better. 

“I didn’t mean . . .” She bites her lip. “I just . . . I want it out, okay? But thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Soon,” Adora promises. She looks apologetic again--Catra can’t tell if that’s better or worse. “Prime can’t get you now.”

Catra gapes at her. Adora smiles, mouthing along to the “how did you know”.

“Because I know  _ you,  _ Catra.” Her face is as open as her arms, which she extends outwards. Catra just stares. Adora can’t say this--she has to know how that sounds. Except Adora doesn’t know anything about Catra’s feelings, so she can’t expect this time to be different.

Catra draws away, hands fisted to avoid bringing out her claws. There’s no way that the statement can be more than platonic, which angers her even if she knows she can’t control Adora’s feelings. It’s enough to make her claws unsheathe her claws despite her efforts; they slice into her palms, draw blood. She can’t do this, can’t imagine how Adora can say that and except Catra to react normally. But of course she can, because Adora has never felt the same way. 

She’s so incredibly angry, blood in her hands and her mouth. All she wants to do is scratch: at the chip still in her neck, or at Adora, or even herself, because they’re already in tatters so why not make it worse? Because that’s what Catra does, after all. She endangered Etheria. She hurt Adora. Everything bad that’s happened is more or less her fault.

“No,” Catra says, moving back. “You don’t know me at all.”

Adora stays silent. Catra knows she’s being mean for no reason, but she can’t help it. She’s so used to doing this, even if it’s awful--which just makes her feel ashamed.

“Look,” she says after a moment. Adora’s expression is a pang in her temple, a flash of vertigo that leaves her nauseous. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for, and--”

“No, Catra,” says Adora, “it’s okay. I probably deserve it.”

“No,” Catra snaps. “You don't deserve this at all, I should be grateful. I’m just messing everything up.”

_ It’s what I do,  _ goes unsaid. Regardless, Adora pulls Catra against her and they sit shoulder to shoulder.

“Catra,” says Adora at last. Her voice is soft and tentative, brushing Catra’s ear. “Do you remember anything?” 

“Just bits.” She remembers the ship. Clones that wore Hordak’s face and a tread of hallways; Glimmer, furious from behind the door of a prison. She remembers Horde Prime, hands cupped around her face, and the slow dull chant of his name. 

And then the chip. She remembers fluid around her, thick like blood, the pale green tendrils of Primes thoughts. And after--

She doesn’t want to remember after.

She can’t.

Adora’s hand reaches to press at her shoulder. The weight is familiar; Catra relaxes instantly, curving into her arms again. The memory is a sickness, a nausea she can’t sweat out, and Adora holds her as she shakes through it, hungry and exhausted with the strain of things she doesn’t want to remember, doesn’t think she should. 

At last the shuddering stops. She collapses into a pile. Her limbs are weak and her mouth tastes sour; she can’t recall the last time she’s had proper food or sleep while she was under Prime’s control. Adora must see this, because she reaches for Catra’s hand and pulls her up, one arm around her shoulder to support her, and starts walking in the direction of the doors.

“It’s okay. We have a room for you.”

“Alright,” says Catra. “Alright.”

Here is what else she remembers:

Adora, standing in front of her, hand outstretched. She says, “I’ll take you home,” and Catra says, “promise?” because Adora’s good at everything, isn’t she, except staying true to her word.

“Promise,” Adora repeats. “I promise.” Tears form at the corner of her eyelids; Catra has to smile, because even now, Adora is so fucking dumb. There is no home to return to. There never was. There is only the girl in front of her with blue eyes and a face Catra knows like a melody, home to Catra, like she always has been.

Back on the ship, Catra takes Adora’s hand. She breathes hard and thinks of a future, even though it is stained with green.

***

Her bed is soft and comfortable. Catra falls asleep easily, probably due to the physical strain exerted from the events on the ship; though when she sees Horde Prime in her nightmare, she wakes moments after, hands fisted in the sheets. Her claws have come out and there are lines of blood down her arms, staining the ripped now-ripped blankets she tore while dreaming.

Catra can’t find the strength to care. She shoves just them all aside--she’s sweating, anyways, a feeling overlaid by shivers--and the moment cool air hits her skin, she feels her body relax. The uniform is off, replaced by grey shorts and a bra, and the combination of this should be enough to calm her down.

She’s safe here. She’s okay.

But the chip is still in. She knows Entrapta can remove it, more safely than Catra would be able to, but she has to resist the urge to tear her skin apart to remove it, dig down deep to the bone. If she got far enough, maybe she could pull the traces of Prime that still linger--even if she knows the chip is disabled and he is gone. She shouldn’t be bothered, but even now, the idea of something under her skin just  _ grates _ .

Catra’s too agitated to fall asleep, terrified of what she’ll see in her dreams. Eventually she stands up and begins to pace, shaking out the tremors in her hands. She doesn't know how long she's been awake, doesn't know what her body's gone through. There's this noise around her that makes her head throb, a feeling of wrongness, like he’s still in her head. Because he is, and she keeps thinking of that night, of water invading her lungs and making her docile, heat in her chest from holding her breath for so long. The air stutters away now, and Catra gasps, stumbles to the floor.

She thinks of the knife against her neck, blood spilling from the wound, a sunrise rising to the surface; thinks of the table, cold and sharp. And then further, further than she’s dared herself to remember. The pinch of the chip on her neck, and a presence at her mind, forceful and enveloping and  _ wrong _ . A green tinge left over her thoughts; too strong to fight against, not when all Catra has been doing is fighting, resisting against what she truly wants. 

Horde Prime came to her once and said, “I will cast out all shadows.” He was cloaked in darkness and Catra’s heart was black and she still dreamt of She-Ra. She didn’t believe him, because no one could burn as bright as Adora, with or without the sword.

“I will bring you peace, little sister. I will bring you happiness.”

She has never known peace. She does not remember happiness. Catra just laughed, and said, “good luck.”

But here’s the thing.

It was peaceful. It was peaceful because it wasn’t her own head. Prime erased everything: the guilt, the pain, the regret that she’s been carrying ever since the portal. But he left her scarred and decimated, head a war ground, littered with the bodies of people she could have been. Part of her wants to go back to it, just so she can escape the weight of what she’s done. The other part tears at the thought, rips and crawls and tightens until she’s not wearing the right skin.

“I will bring you peace,” Prime repeated. “I will bring the light.”

It's all in vivid detail, the memory so intense it feels like the present. She’s not sure if she's dreaming, not sure what's real or what's not, especially now---not when her head isn’t even her own, and Prime still feels like he’s in there. It’s all Catra can do to close her eyes and wait. She doesn’t know how long it takes---minutes, hours, maybe--until the strangled feeling passes and she can finally breathe right. Only then does she sleep. 

It's a dream riddled, patched thing that leaves the covers sweat-slick and Catra thrashing herself awake in various intervals throughout the night. Sometimes she sees Adora in the haze where she’s half awake, but Catra is used to seeing her in her dreams. At some point she just accepts it, which is why when a hand comes to curve around her shoulder, she doesn’t flinch.

“Hey,” says Adora, breath warm on her shoulders. It must be around the Etherian equivalent of midnight; they should all be asleep. “Did I wake you up?”

Too late to pretend. Catra turns over and smiles. She’s angry at herself for being so vulnerable, but she’s grateful for the company.

“No,” she says. “You don’t have to check on me every five minutes, though.”

“I was just trying to help!”

Catra flushes. “You are,” she admits. “Is there any reason you’re here though? You should be asleep.”

“I like the company,” says Adora. She pauses. “Unless…”

“No! I mean . . . yeah. You can sit down.” It’s the right thing to say; Adora beams at her and settles against her side. They fit easily, shoulder to shoulder, Adora’s hair brushing into her face. Catra knows she must look like hell, arms bleeding and face red, but she can’t bring herself to care. Adora isn’t going to judge her for it, so she won’t judge herself either.

“Can’t sleep?” says Catra at last. 

It’s a meaningless question; Adora has a hard time sleeping unless she’s prompted, needs to follow a schedule in order to have some sense of routine. Catra is unsurprised when she answers, “yeah, kinda. Space is tricky. No sense of day or night and all that.”

“Yeah.”

“And you?” 

Adora looks hesitant, but Catra just shrugs. “Same.” It’s easier than admitting what it really is, how she’s afraid of what she’ll see. Moments later, she lets out a yawn, and Adora jabs an elbow into her ribs, prolongs the contact for longer than necessary.

“Not tired, huh?” 

“I didn’t say that!” Catra protests. She rubs at her forehead, trying to remember the last time she had a decent sleep. Adora stays quiet and Catra sighs, hating the concern on her face. 

“It was hard to sleep without you,” she says. “In the Horde, I mean.” Hard is an understatement; she’d spend nights awake, space unfamiliar without Adora’s reassuring warmth. She is a blazing line of heat next to Catra both now and in memory, and Catra turns, catalogues the look of soft surprise on her face. 

“I know what you mean,” Adora says, reaching out to touch her wrist. “It was hard for me too.”

“I would have thought the rebellion was all perfect.” 

“Yeah, no.” Adora doesn’t seem to notice her resentment. “For one, they didn’t give Swift Wind a chair! And there’s no prison! And it’s stupid, I guess, but the beds--”

“Too pink? Too glittery? Too comfortable?”

“All of the above,” Adora says grimly, and Catra can’t help it: she smothers a laugh in her pillow. When she turns back up, Adora is beaming at her, expression open in a way Catra’s never learned to be.

“I’ll never get you, you know,” she says. She finds Adora’s fingers. They still at her wrist when she wraps her own around them, but then they’re clasping hands, just like when they were children.

“Yeah, well.” Adora lifts a shoulder. “You get to me. And I guess that’s even better.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

They lie like that in silence. Catra can feel the words unsaid lining up like dominos, but she doesn’t push it, doesn’t topple this delicately arranged balance she has with Adora that threatens to set itself off in a chain reaction. Adora speaks first, loosening her hand; Catra only realizes she’s cold the moment she moves away.

“If you want to sleep then I’ll let you, but--”

“No.” She reaches for Adora’s hand again. “If you’re tired, then I want you to sleep. But if not--”

“I can stay?”

Adora sits eagerly beside her, almost as if she’s proving she can, that she knows how to. It makes Catra feel like she’s being strangled; she reaches out, touches her arm.

“Only if you want too.” Because Adora deserves a break for once. She shouldn’t have to do this if she doesn’t want to. But the other girl just smiles, nods her head, and that’s enough of an invitation for Catra; she shifts, making room. Adora takes up the space she previously inhabited, on her back with one hand between them, and Catra grabs for it, feels her body relax. She can’t remember the last time she felt that way; the stress she’s been under feels imprinted, like fingerprints into clay. 

“Goodnight Adora,” she says, and gets a laugh in response. The room is silent apart from their breathing, and Catra slides into sleep slowly, enters that world like an old house she left in childhood and is visiting as an adult. 

She sleeps peacefully, Adora by her side.

***

Catra wakes feeling like part of her has passed away. Her hands are tight and her shoulders ache, numb from the tendency of sleeping tensed, and the ship’s light beats static into the corners of her eyes. When she looks up, the room blurs and distorts like a hologram, or one of those ghosts she’s heard in stories--the thought of which makes her laugh.

Catra has seen her fair share of ghosts. They take the form of Adora, so familiar she’s alien, and the shadows under their eyes that collect like dust. Not all ghosts are from stories. They live in the Fright Zone, in the curl of Catra’s mind.

Her hands go up to the chip almost instantly; it doesn’t hurt, but she thinks she can hear it buzzing. It takes her a moment to realize that it’s just her ears, but she can’t shake the worry that it’s still activated, somehow, that Prime is still there.

Moments later, the paranoia is spreading like an itch. She bolts up, fucking claws at it, skin tearing under her fingers. When she feels blood, she stops, and then whirls towards the bed. She can’t breath and her face and chest flush hot with a nausea-like embarrassment--but Adora isn’t there. The sheets are rumpled and the bed is empty; Catra falls across it, breathing hard. 

She doesn’t stop shaking. Her lungs work though, and she swallows breath after breath, exhales it in broken strands of morse code against her palms. Her chest feels sticky as if she’s been running, and she can taste bile in her throat; that, combined with the stinging of her cuts, is enough to push her over the edge. Catra can’t even muster the energy to hate how weak she feels, just slides under the covers and sobs.

***

Sometimes Catra forgets what it’s like to ache, that the pain in her chest when she thinks of what she’s lost, what she’s never had in the first place, is a pain and not a normalcy. She’s so used to feeling it that it’s strange to realize that it wasn’t there originally, born and grown like a tumor under her skin. 

Which is why Adora’s in front of her right now, yelling about how nothing has changed. Because it’s so easy to fight her. Because it’s so easy to believe all the promises have been for nothing, and that they won’t change, because it’s always been like this. Catra knows how to bait her, knows the pull and push between them like the ocean, a tide that thrums against her chest, the air between them as she rattles out breath after breath.

“I promised I'd take you home,” Adora screeches, throws her arms out, “and that's exactly what I'm gonna do.” She steps back, breathing hard. “Why are you acting like this?! We saved your life!"

  
_ I never asked you too. _

_ Look where that got me. _

_ You shouldn’t have risked that _

_ “ _ I told you not to come back,” she yells instead, pushing herself up to get face to face with Adora. “But you love feeling like a hero, don’t you?”

Adora’s features contort--shock, hurt, anger--and then she steps forward, jabs a finger into Catra’s chest. Catra revels in it, the bitter satisfaction it gives her. “You rather I left you there to die?”

“What do you care?” Catra screams. “I know you all hate me!”

Adora’s eyes widen. Catra waits for her to yell back, but guilt hangs on her features instead, a led coat that twists her mouth, pulls her eyebrows down. “I never hated you!” she screams. It’s loud, but it’s anguished, and Catra feels it like a gut punch, her own breath stuttering out.

She can’t look at Adora. She makes her way back to her mattress instead, flipped from where Adora pushed it in a fit of rage. “Then you’re even dumber than I thought. Leave me alone.”

Adora scoffs and mutters something about how she thought things would be different, but leaves anyway, door sliding shut behind her. Catra turns at the last second. Adora is in her red jacket and Horde uniform, ponytail swinging; a memory and an unattainable future at once, pulsing in the inside of her eyes, a bruise against Catra’s heart. She wants to run after Adora, to curl her fingers around Adora wrists. She wants to breathe ‘I’m sorry’ into Adora’s mouth and feel them skin to skin. 

She wants--

The doors slide shut.

Catra curls up. Her shoulders form a V, body a broken building of tension crumbling in on itself. She has sat like this before, the day after Adora left: clutching what few belongings Adora had left to her chest. Adora has never needed materials, doesn’t believe in sentimental possessions, so there was only a toothbrush and a jacket, with a few hand drawn photos of them gifted by Kyle. Catra laughs at it now, but she remembers holding them close, like a secret, a promise, terrified that someday they wouldn’t be enough. Her laugh turns into a hiccup, and then she’s sobbing again, hands over her mouth as if she can press the noises back in.

Those belongings were later burned--but thinking of it gives her an uneasy feeling, like she can feel her skin shifting over her bones. Catra manages to stop crying minutes later, and wipes her eyes and pushes herself up.

Because Adora came back.

She doesn’t want to leave the room, but she does. The light is blinding, and the floor is cold against her bare feet; she hisses, shifting on her toes. She can hear Adora from the engine room, so she goes the opposite way, towards the kitchen. The door is open, and she can see Glimmer in it. She’s holding a box and has her head tilted up; moments later, she laughs and says, “good idea”. The Archer Boy must be with her then--Bow, Catra thinks with a smile that has no business being as genuine as it is. She moves back, wanting to give them space--she knows how they are around each other, and they deserve a few nice moments--before she catches sight of who it actually is.

A clone.

The breath punches out of her lungs, and she drops to her knees. Her mind is an exposed nerve, tongue a salty, metallic weight that she’s bitten. Facts process slowly: the cold floor against her knees, Glimmer at her side; she screeches, Horde Prime’s face throbbing behind her eyes like a bruise. When she opens them, she’s kneeling at his throne, on the ship again: all green tubes and dark metal. He smiles at her. “Hello, little sister,” he says. “Welcome home.”

Panic pulses through her like a heartbeat, sticky and hot and leaving her shuddering; she drops to her forearms and gasps,  _ shakes _ . She can taste bile burning in the back of her throat--she doesn’t retch but she wants to, eyes watering from the strain--and she can feel her name being called, distantly, somewhere far off. She can barely hear it though, over the blood hammering in her ears; it’s a thick static, buzzing as Horde Prime stands, getting closer, and  _ no no no no--- _

A hand clamps down on her shoulder. The ship falls away. 

“Catra,” says Glimmer, a hesitant smile on her face, “are you okay?”

_ Breathe _ .

Catra exhales, brokenly, into her own shoulder, before she catches sight of the clone. Her mind goes to Glimmer--Glimmer, who can’t get hurt--and Catra shoves her behind herself, one arm outstretched.

“Clone!” she yells. “Get away!”

She pushes Glimmer back and lunges. Panic twists through her at the thought of contact, but all that matters is protecting Glimmer, so she doesn’t stop, just hits the clone and topples. Her skin crawls like it’s trying to detach and get away, but she stays where she is, one arm raised. 

He looks like Hordak. She can’t fucking  _ breathe _ .

“Catra! Stop!” Glimmer is her side. She catches Catra’s arm and yanks her away. “This is Wrong Hordak! He’s good!”

“He’s . . . what?” Catra stops struggling and stares at Wrong Hordak. He looks sad and befuddled. “Wait, then what’s he doing here?”

“Bow fried his brains so we adopted him. Long story.”

“Are you a brother of Prime?” says Wrong Hordak, glancing between them.

Catra sputters. “What? Prime is awful! We--”

“Love him,” Glimmer finishes, jabbing her with an elbow. “Seriously, Catra, play along. He’s harmless.”

“He’s a clone!"

“He’s not connected to the hivemind. It’s  _ okay _ .”

“I--” Catra is going to protest, but then she looks at Wrong Hordak again. He’s wearing an apron, beaming at her, and her anger fades instantly, replaced by bone weary regret.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I--”

“All is forgiven!” Wrong Hordak says. Glimmer laughs and pats his head.

“See? It’s okay. Though you did cause a--”

“I’ll clean it up,” Catra snaps, stumbling backwards. Her face is hot with shame. “Find me a broom, I can do it, I can clean up the mess, I know how to do that, I can fix it for once, just one fucking time--”

She’s rambling, hands shaking at her sides. “Catra,” Glimmer says, coming to stand beside her. “Breath with me. It’s okay.”

“I hurt you!” Catra yells, throwing Glimmer’s hand off her shoulder. “I endangered Etheria! I brought Prime here! How can that be okay?”

“Catra,” Glimmer repeats. “You saved me.”

The words slot into her like a part in a machine. Catra looks up slowly.

“We all did bad things. I almost activated the Heart Of Etheria.” Glimmer’s face twists. “People make mistakes, and that’s okay. You saved me on that ship. There’s good in you, deep down.” Her mouth quirks; she adds, with a touch of mischief, “very,  _ very _ deep down. I mean so very--”

“I get it,” Catra laughs. She’s surprised by the sudden bubble of happiness she feels. “I just--I don’t know. I’m sick of always breaking things. I need to fix them.”  _ Even if I don’t know how. Even if I’ve never learned how. _

“You could start by apologizing,” Glimmer says. “It’s not much, but it’s a start.”

“O-okay.” Catra opens her mouth and exhales. She can do this. She knows how to do this. But the words don’t come, clogged in her throat like a cork in a wine bottle. She coughs instead, says “give me a minute,” as her face burns hot with shame. 

Glimmer scowls, but just steps aside--which Catra appreciates. The room gives her space to breathe. She knows it shouldn’t be so hard to do this, not when she  _ is _ sorry, so sorry that an apology wouldn’t cover it; can feel the guilt inside her like an inflection. The words don’t come. She thinks apologizing would make it all the more real somehow. Like if she doesn’t say it, it won’t happen.

But it did.

She destroyed kingdoms. She ruined lives. She threatened them, and tore them apart, and ruined the relationships she had with the only people close to her. Prime coming is her fault, and there’s no way to avoid that. But maybe is there owning up to it, and building back instead.

She opens her mouth and takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Sparkles--Glimmer--I’m so sorry."

It feels awful, scratchy like sandpaper. Glimmer claps her hands and beams.

“See, that wasn’t so hard!”   
  


“If you make this into a speech, I swear to god, I will--” She bites down. “I will endure it. Because I am working through this. And I am. Sorry, I mean. I put your kingdom and danger, and it was wrong, it was so fucking wrong. But I want to make things right.”

Glimmer smiles again, this time gentle, and places a hand on Catra’s shoulder. She fidgets, disliking the contact, but doesn’t move away.

“I forgive you,” she says.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> they will be happy i promise


End file.
